


Wreckage of My Past

by Miso



Series: A War He Can't Forget [4]
Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: (no one actually dies dont worry), Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 04:40:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Or: Earl, For Once, Is Not Magically Impervious To My Almighty Merciless Hand.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Someone please help these sad sad boys. They are not okay. I'm not sure if suicide hotlines and such, especially for veterans, existed in the late 70s/early 80s, so that might be a little bit anachronistic, but I'm sure there's somewhere Floyd can call if he needs help. Obviously, big ol' honkin' trigger warning for mentions/description of suicide and war and brief mention of parental neglect/emotional abuse. Floyd has had a pretty shit life.

Laying in the dark staring at the ceiling and contemplating my life has become a pastime of mine. Sleep evades me most nights. If it's not nightmares, it's simple failure to stay asleep. I sigh heavily and turn to look at Earl, sound asleep and snoring beside me. God, he looks so peaceful. I gently kiss his forehead and inch closer to him, feeling his warmth. It's better than nothing.

He can tell when I'm having a nightmare now. I don't know if I've always done this, if I've gotten worse, or if he's just learned how to read the signs. He tells me I twitch. I've kicked him in my sleep a couple of times, and the first time I did he said he thought I'd done it on purpose before he realized I wasn't even awake. I toss and turn and always wake up in a cold sweat. He's even heard me making noise before, though he does tell me I don't talk. I usually can't find my voice when I first wake up. I feel like someone or something wrapped one hand around my throat and used the other to reach into me and grip my heart.

I watch the ceiling fan spin for a minute and contemplate my life. It's jarring for me to watch other people just carry on like everything's fine. Of course, they haven't been through what I have. They didn't watch people they thought were their friends massacre innocent people because they happened to be from the wrong half of the country we were in. My therapist says that witnessing a grotesque war crime is a pretty good reason to be fucked up. (Okay, he didn't put it like that, exactly, but I'm not stupid. I know how to read between the lines.) I didn't want to go. My doctor prescribed me Klonopin and I thought I was doing fine. In retrospect, having at least one nightmare so bad it sent me outside for some "fresh air" (that is, a panic attack and 5 cigarettes in the dead of night) every other week probably didn't constitute doing fine.

Earl mumbles to himself in his sleep and turns over, tossing a warm arm over my midsection. I have to admit it's kind of nice. I hate to wake him, with the hours Caballero makes him work. Poor thing was up until 4 am and had to do a 6 am newscast with me once. I remember how pissed I was and how pissed he was that I was pissed. That was well before we realized neither of us was as horrible as the other thought he was. Earl was lucky as a kid. He had a family that loved him and a comfortable upbringing. My therapist says being the sixth of nine children, eight of whom were essentially unwanted and unplanned, and feeling like you were never loved by your parents is another good reason to be fucked up. (Okay, I paraphrased again, but I know what he meant.)

I don't know what he sees in me. I have to assume he sees something I can't. At least Earl can admit to himself that he's a genuinely good person. A little thick, a little gullible, a little naive, but a good person at heart. I guess that comes with being sheltered as a kid. He was the baby. His sisters and his mom doted on him. His dad had his cushy station manager job. Hell, he practically handed Earl his reporting job on a goddamn silver platter. I'm the only person who's stayed longer than two years, according to Caballero. Part of me wonders when the hell Earl got that job, since he was just teetering on the brink of 30 when we met.

Earl stirs and reclaims his arm as he stretches a little and yawns. "... Floyd?" he mumbles, already-nearsighted eyes blurry with sleep. He flicks on the lamp on his nightstand and slides on his glasses. "You're still up...?"

"Can't sleep."

"You didn't have another nightmare, did you?"

"No. I just... can't sleep." I shrug and go back to watching the ceiling fan. "I'm used to it. I'll be fine. Down an espresso or 30 in the morning."

"You know you shouldn't drink as much caffeine as you do." Earl yawns again and nuzzles into my side, laying his arm over my chest again. "You wanna talk about something...?"

"Like what?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Whatever's on your mind. You're making that face you always make when you're thinking." He smiles a little and kisses my cheek. "You furrow your eyebrows and pout. It's cute."

I sigh softly and stare at the fan again. "... How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Just... be so content. You don't have nightmares. You sleep like a log at night. You're not up every couple of hours because you feel like someone's watching you and is about to jump you with a knife."

"I wasn't in Vietnam." I wince a little. He's too blunt sometimes. "But you're wrong on part of that. I do have nightmares."

"... You never talk about them."

"I'm more worried about yours."

"That's not fair to you, though."

"I feel like they'll scare you."

I pause and sit up. "What goes on in there, anyway?" I almost tell him I always figured the inside of his head was just elevator music playing on a loop, but I'm genuinely curious at this point.

He's quiet, but then he snuggles in close to me, practically in my lap. I wonder how bad his nightmares could be that he wants this much contact with me while he talks about them. "... I have nightmares where you don't come home from a business trip or an errand you said you were going to run. Or you're late to work, but you told me you would be, but I'm starting to get worried."

I'm about to tell him it's kind of sweet that he has bad dreams about losing me, but he continues, and I can tell he's getting emotional. "It'll be night time if you're not home, or the middle of the day if you didn't come to work. Someone calls me. They found your body in your hotel room hung up in the closet, or your car crashed into a tree or a road sign." He chokes a little and barely holds back tears. "O-Or when I go home to check on you I find you. You took all of your medicine, or you slit your wrists, or..." he finally breaks down in tears, clinging to me. "Y-you shot yourself and I walk in the bedroom and your brains are all over the wall." He casts a wary glance at the wall, like he can see fresh blood and bits of skull, and it creeps me out so badly I feel myself shudder. "A-and there's usually a note. I-it's always about h-how you couldn't take the guilt anymore."

He sobs and buries his face in my neck. "A-a-and I'm just... I'm scared th-that someday it'll _actually happen_ a-and I'll h-have been able t-to-to do something to h-help you, a-a-a-and I didn't b-because I never saw wh-what everyone else did, and..." He grips my shirt and lets out a hoarse cry, followed with barely-comprehensible words. " _ **I don't want to lose you!**_ "

Earl bawls into my neck for a while. I'm barely holding back tears myself at this point. I search for something, anything to reassure him with, but all I come up with is "there are no guns in this house." For a variety of reasons, I doubt that'll help. All I feel I can do is hold him close and let him cry. I wish I could tell him he has no reason to worry. That his fears are completely unfounded. I can't, and it breaks my heart. I try to rock him gently and stroke his hair, things he does for me when I'm upset, but I don't think I have the same finesse he does.

Eventually, his tears slow, and finally stop. He swallows and wipes his eyes, then looks up at me nervously. "... Y-you won't, right?"

"Won't what, doll?"

"Kill yourself!" he whimpers, his voice cracking again. "Goddammit, Floyd, I-I don't... I couldn't live with myself if you..." He rips his glasses off- a bit late, I notice as the light hits them and illuminates the spots from his tears on the lenses- and forcefully wipes his eyes again.

My silence clearly isn't what he wants. I see his face fall and I swear I feel his blood run cold for him. "No," he whispers, shaking. "Floyd, no..."

"Earl." I take his hands and hold them tight, trying to calm his trembling. "I'm not going to tell you that you have no reason to worry. I've thought about it."

"No...!" Earl's vocabulary seems to have narrowed to one word, as he sobs again. I sigh softly, let go of his hand, and tip his chin up so he's looking at me. I know he can see me pretty clearly this close, but I hope he can't see my own tears pooling in my eyes.

"I don't feel like that now. I haven't in a long time. I'm not going to tell you everything's sunshine and rainbows and I don't still have days where I wonder what would happen if I wasn't here." I pause to think, wondering if I'm wording this poorly. "I can't tell you that you should never worry. Not in good conscience. But I can tell you that if I ever feel like that, I'll tell you."

He sniffles. "Wh-what if I'm not...?"

"Harold gave me a few numbers to call, okay? I'll always have someone even if it isn't you." I press my forehead against his and let him cry a little more. I've managed to hold back the tears so far. "I'm doing my damnedest to get better, doll. I promise."

He nods a little. "... I love you so much," he whispers. I smile a little and kiss his nose.

"I love you, too." It feels nice to say that without feeling like I should act like I'm joking or not serious. This just doesn't feel like the time to be Floyd Robertson, stoic serious reporter. Not with my horribly frantic boyfriend in my lap crying and worried that I'm going to shuffle off the mortal coil.

Finally, finally, his sobbing dies down and seems to stay that way. We sit together for a bit longer. I can only guess he doesn't want to let go of me after how deep and soul-baring our conversation just was.

"... I don't think I can go back to sleep," he mutters. I glance at the clock. To my surprise, it reads 7:05, and a glance out the window confirms the sun is indeed rising and turning the sky a soft peachy tone.

"... Well..." I begin, rubbing Earl's back gently. "It's not that early. We're off today. You wanna go get some breakfast, and then we can do whatever you want to do for the rest of the day?"

"... What about you?"

"I'm the reason you're as upset as you are." I half-smile. He smiles back despite himself and kisses me gently, then says, "Yeah. I guess that sounds alright. The zoo has some new baby lions."

"How old are you, again?"

"Old enough to pay taxes but young enough to still think baby lions are cute." He kisses me again and slowly, hesitantly lets go of me. He pauses as he retrieves his discarded glasses and slips them back on, then adds, "... I'm sorry I did all of that. I was supposed to be worried about you."

"I asked." I smile again and get out of bed, stretching. "It's not fair to you to have to worry about me all the time. Now come on, let's take a shower and wash those tears off of your cute little face."

He blushes, but he follows me closely. I kiss him on the temple gently and shut the bathroom door behind us.

I can't guarantee him I'll never give him reason to worry, but goddamn if I'm not going to give him as little reason as possible.


End file.
